


Witchcraft

by AnontheNullifier



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Wanda is distracting, Witchcraft, flirtatious cooking, scarletvisionexchange2017, sve2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-25 08:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12032184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnontheNullifier/pseuds/AnontheNullifier
Summary: Vision contemplates why Wanda is so distracting to him.Written for the Scarlet Vision Exchange 2017





	Witchcraft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thissweetmoment](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thissweetmoment).



> Prompt: A fanfiction from MCU Vision’s perspective that embodies the atmosphere of the song “Witchcraft” by Frank Sinatra. If possible, I’d love for Vision’s way of thinking (and/or dialogue) to revolve around these three words: bewitch, witchcraft, and witch. (song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oFmNgiEgPoQ). 
> 
> I hope this fulfills what you were hoping for with the prompt!
> 
> To everyone else, I hope you enjoy as well!

The sizzle of oil in the pan crescendos when he lays the chicken down, a satisfying sound that means he might actually have the pan hot enough on the first attempt. Vision curls his fingers anxiously around the spatula, always tempted to touch the food too soon out of worry it might burn, but he has suffered the consequences of premature flipping too many times and so he tries to hold back. The key, he finds, is to allow his mind to stray just a bit, distract his natural instincts long enough to cook the food. So he focuses on the noise around him, the bubbling oil intermixing with the plopping sounds of boiling water, the gentle click-click of the chicken-shaped timer (a recent addition made by Sam and one that Vision, without admitting it to anyone but Wanda, of course, is quite fond of) tracking the progression of the focaccia bread in the oven, and the honeyed robustness of trumpets filling the room. Beyond all of the immediate sounds in the kitchen he can also make out the nightly news that Rhodes and Natasha are watching in the common space, a habit the two have after particularly dicey missions to assess the reactions of the public. Vision is unconcerned, at the moment, with what they are saying, but finds himself intrigued more so with how they refer to each Avenger.

He’s discovered that you can parse out the perceptions of the team utilizing the monikers used to describe them in the news. Steve is referred to as Captain America, Captain Rogers, or, for the casual name-drop, Cap, all suggesting a veneration for his military service and an acceptance of his ideals as their own. Natasha they call Black Widow, a sense of admiration and bone chilling terror at her prowess, any mention of her actions said with a reverence, a deep seated surety that she is not a woman to speak ill of regardless of whether the person agrees with Natasha’s actions or not. Iron Man is ubiquitous with Tony Stark, used interchangeably depending on the mood, and this seems right, there is no difference in antics whether he is in the suit or outside of it. Rhodes, well, he has changed his official superhero name too many times now that they simply give him respect for his service by talking about him as Colonel James Rhodes. It annoys him that War Machine has not stuck, but such is public opinion. Sam is Falcon or the bird guy, not to be confused with the air of bewilderment when the arrow guy is mentioned, which is rarely, a thorn in Clint’s side at the disrespect he gets, though he shrugs it off well. Scott has it even worse, an anchorwoman one time mentioning Ant-man to an immediate response of confused silence. Vision is, well, he is The Vision, there is no qualifier, no attempt to justify his existence as anything worth a second name, a general agreement that his inhumanness is aptly construed with two syllables preceded by a very articulated The.

Then there is Wanda. A disquieting trepidation vibrates the voices of commentators when they speak of the Scarlet Witch. Vision understands the Scarlet aspect, her powers most closely resembling the eponymous color, though he would argue she is her own unique shade of red. But Witch, this has always put him on edge, a sordid undertone in the history of the term, an implied layer of supernatural malevolence. Her powers are not difficult to comprehend, in his opinion, she reverses the molecular polarity of items when she moves them, including the molecules in the air when she sends out a stream of scarlet. Mind reading is a bit more difficult for him to matter-of-factly explain at a level accessible to the average listener, but, regardless, her powers, just as his own, are deeply rooted in scientific explanation. Yet no one else is ever willing to concede to this point. To be fair, he reasons, fingers growing restless as he taps the spatula against the edge of the counter, Wanda has all but given up on countering the term, she even dressed as a witch the prior Halloween, but he is unsure if she is embracing the moniker or simply doesn’t want to fight it any more.

Vision tenses at a sudden pressure on his back, mildly concerned at his failure to detect another person entering the kitchen, but his muscles loosen slightly when arms snake around his waist, his thoughts turning far away from monikers and witches when a kiss is pressed between his shoulder blades. The path of his free hand is predetermined, an automatic response whenever she embraces him like this, falling to cover her hands interlocked over his abdomen, a smile perking up his lips at the difference in texture between her skin and the thin bands of metal around her fingers. “Wanda.”

“Hey, Vizh.” The words absorb into his back, a rush of heat moving up his spine at the way her breath sneaks between the fibers of his synthetic sweater to pierce his skin. “What are you doing?”

It is an odd habit, one that all of his teammates seem to share, asking what a person is doing when it is fairly easy to ascertain the answer. “Preparing dinner.”

Wanda unlocks her hands, stepping around to stand at his side, though she does not remove her right hand completely as she readjusts, allows it to run lazily along his body, sliding it up from his stomach until it is resting on his chest.  A slight, effortless press of her palm turns his body so he can take in the breathtakingly easy smile that is paired with her enthusiastic, “Smells delicious.”

His body has come to react in certain ways outside of conscious thought, forming muscle memories for moments and actions that are frequent in his life. Now is such a moment, his body bending just enough to meet the upward momentum of Wanda lifting onto her toes, everything predictable down to the pressure of her lips against his own and the angle of her hand pressed to his chest, an unnecessary source of balance, but one she blissfully continues out of habit, and finally the emergence of a tiny, lopsided smirk that reaches her eyes when she pulls back.

This smirk and the happiness filling her eyes kickstarts the second half of the programming, the pads of his fingers brushing along her cheek, eliciting a barely perceptible sigh from her lips as he follows the curve of her cheekbone up to the strands of hair that are always loose, his fingers dipping below the hair as he pushes it up and behind her ear. “Are you speaking of me or the food?”

Wanda’s smile broadens, eyes rolling as she pulls her hand away and shakes her head, “You do know that using that line every time lessens its impact.”

It is a struggle to remain serious, the rush of adrenaline and the uptick of exhilaration that results by being in her presence difficult to ignore. But he does his best to contain the grin attempting to form on his lips long enough to speak. “Yet your pulse still increases by three beats whenever I use it.”

An amused, small laugh leaves her lips as she shakes her head (which is the final drop that breaks the dam of his joy, freeing the grin he successfully held at bay), angling her hip to give him a slight shove to the side as she glances at the array of pots and pans on the stove. “So, what can I do to help?”

Vision joins her in scrutinizing the setup, assessing where he is currently at in the various recipes for the evening, his teammates all answering his question concerning cravings differently which means he is attempting to satiate all of their individual tastes. “I believe the most pressing task is to quarter the brussel sprouts for Captain Rogers.”

Her response comes as a touch, nothing showy, just a brush of fingers along the back of his neck, a brief, simple confirmation of his request as she walks past him to the fridge.  If he had to estimate the frequency with which she touches him in such a way, absentmindedly and automatically after so many years together, it would be in the hundreds, possibly thousands but it does not diminish the effects. Vision smiles, as he always does at the warmth of her touch, eyes trailing along after her, following the casual sway of her hips and enjoying the way it sends her black dress dancing just above her knees. Wanda brushes past him on the way to the cutting board, this time an elbow grazing against his lower back for no other reason than to touch him and, because no one else is in the immediate vicinity, he does not stifle the 30 percent increase in his smile. Instead he basks in the aftermath of her touch, the snaking trail winding down from his neck, meeting the blooming warmth from his back until it creates a layer of peaceful contentment over his body.

Vision pushes aside the warmth for a second as he prods at the sizzling chicken, lifting it slightly to check the underside and measure the changes in its coloring to assess its progress. As he inspects the third chicken breast, there is a flicker in his periphery, his eyes sliding to the right to briefly investigate the source. At first all he can see is auburn hair moving in time with the swish of the fabric of her dress, body swaying to the beat of the music, her hand rising into the air with a bent wrist as she opens and closes the drawer with the cutting boards. A bright green cutting board floats through the air before she sends out sparks of scarlet towards the knife block – gentle, even arcs rising and falling with the rhythmic wave of her fingers as she chooses the most appropriate knife.

Vision’s attention returns to the chicken for a millisecond before he finds his gaze inching back to Wanda’s hands, watching as her left hand begins a new process with her palm raised towards the ceiling. Her fingertips congregate to pull out thin tendrils of scarlet and from there her muscles take over, thoughts absent, eyes trained on the brussel sprouts laid out on the cutting board. First her pinky bows, straightening back out to hold one of the leafy ovals in place. Then her ring finger extends out, encouraging the knife to slice off the end of the brussel sprout, scarlet reflecting off the metallic bands wrapping around both sides of her knuckle and shimmering along the edge of the knife. She continues this rhythm for each individual slice, a swivel of her wrist sending the quarters in a lazy waltz along an invisible archway into a bowl. Each individual quarter follows this routine, hovering in the air for several mesmerizing seconds, an anthropomorphic joy in their journey before a 60 degree bend of her index finger tempts them down, a final swipe of her hand sending the vegetables into the bowl and the cycle begins anew.

Vision cannot help but grin at the ease of her movements, the perfect synchronization of her powers, fingers always moving, unable to remain dormant for extended periods of time, regardless of if they are in a meeting, at a press conference, spending a lazy afternoon on the couch, or tangled in bed. Most would define this as a nervous tick, accuse her of unnecessary use of her powers, but Vision has analyzed the dance of her hands, devoted countless hours to watching her, and he knows that when she is nervous the sparks she strikes between the pads of her fingers are chaotic, volatile, unpredictable. This right now, however, is none of those, a calming orderliness in the simple task that is executed with well-trained, effortless dexterity.

The longer he watches her the more detached his mind becomes, crawling through time, retracing the feel of her fingers on his skin, finding himself lost fifteen minutes in the past, her arms wrapped around his waist, a peck to his back. Then he is eight minutes in the past, her palm flush against his chest, sending the heat curling along his pectoral plates until it seeps into the creases between his skin and vibranium, where it then begins its swift, yet gentle take-over of his body. Then four and a half minutes, just a simple touch but the trail of heat lingers on his neck, a secondary path tingling along his lower back. All the while the scarlet tendrils continue their hypnotizing journey, the rhythm of the knife matching the rhythm of his heart.

A hand falls on his arm, a gentle squeeze accompanying her, “Um, Vision?”

He blinks three times, irises twisting counterclockwise as the room refocuses around him. “Wanda?”

“You okay?” He sweeps his gaze over the counter, trying to identify the source of her question, uncertain how to answer her. Despite his attempts to ascertain the issue, all he can seem to register is the tapping of her black-lacquered nails on his bicep, tiny sparks of red flashing and then disappearing with each tap, his attention transfixed by the movement, drawn up along her arm by some invisible string until he is met with a knowing, coy smirk, which paralyzes his already floundering mind. “You’re letting the chicken burn.”

The acrid whiff of blackening chicken and slight burn in his eyes from the charred spices finally urge his body to act, his hand bringing the spatula to flip the chicken, rescuing it from a fiery death that is, sadly, not uncommon on his cooking nights, but only when Wanda is nearby. “Thank you, I,” he pauses, unsure what justification exists for his lapse in attention, “seem to have been lost in thought.”

Slowly she removes her fingers from his arm, lips smacking in disbelief as she raises an incredulous eyebrow. It does not require mind reading to conclude she is aware of the hollowness of his answer, but she never fully acknowledges this awareness, favoring to lay the foundation for him to come clean on his own. “Yeah? What were you thinking about?”

“I,” Vision tries to decide how to proceed as he wrestles with his actions, uncomfortable with how easily she can entrance him, how effortlessly her presence decreases his ability to function. Instead of simply saying this, he finds himself tumbling back into his previous thoughts about the woman next to him. Wanda’s encouraging _hmm_ cements his next course of action, eyes following along as she flicks her fingers to lift the lid of the pot where Rhodes’ favorite rosemary cream sauce is simmering, “do you mind being called Scarlet Witch?”

There is a brief falter in her smile as she glances in his direction, “You back to obsessing over superhero names again?”

The wording is a bit much, “I would not call a dalliance of contemplation obsessing.”

“Semantics, Vizh.” It has become her response anytime he attempts to lessen or redirect her observations, Wanda far too perceptive, sometimes uncomfortably so, in determining his thoughts. Though he would say, and has argued quite vehemently with her, that he does not obsess over anything, too much. “You know it doesn’t. Still bothering you?”

“I-” He watches as she wraps scarlet tendrils around the spices sitting on the counter, a lazy rotation of her wrist hovering them through the air in front of him until she can grasp them in her hand, “am not personally bothered by the term, though I do believe they,” it took him many years and a lot of encouragement from Wanda to not always define the pronoun, particularly when it is a repeat conversation, and so he allows her to draw the connection between his they and the public, “seem to use it quite ominously.”

Wanda shrugs, sniffing each spice before placing the containers back on the counter, her free hand proceeding to move to the other pans on the stove, double checking that he is not ruining any of the other food. “There is fear in the term,” the spatula is pried from his fingers before he realizes what is happening, attention far too focused on the movement of her lips as she mulls over her words and the scarlet mist surrounding the handle of the skillet, holding it in place while she checks his half-blackened chicken. “But also admiration, a witch,” the uptick in her voice highlights the word, draws his eyes to her face and the mischievous grin overtaking her mouth, one that easily and briefly steals the air from his lungs, “is not to be trifled with.”

“It appears I was not informed of this.”  

Her laugh is breathy, happy, intoxicating, a reward that has helped shape his humor since his creation due to the satisfaction planted deep within his chest whenever he can elicit such a reaction from her. “Oh no,” Wanda places the spatula down, arms wrapping around his waist, her hands coming to rest on his lower back, fingers toying with the edge of his belt, “you were warned, multiple times, if I recall, and yet,” she pauses as she lifts onto her toes, mouth hovering just below his lips, her breath a steamy rope connecting to his chin, tilting his head down so that their lips are barely separated, “you still willingly continue to” she narrows her eyes, a conspiratorial edge lacing her voice, thickening her accent as she whispers, “lay with a witch.”

All it takes is the deepening of her voice mingling with the waft of her lavender shampoo to render his mind inert, senses overloading at the force of nature that is Wanda, thoughts collapsing as he stares into her eyes, registering the impish grin on her lips, one that grows more pronounced as her hands inch lower, fingers dipping into the back pockets of his pants. Vision finds his hand lifting, brushing the perennially loose strand of hair from her face as he feels his body giving in to her allure.  

The clucking from the chicken timer breaks the spell, his feet automatically phasing through the floor, forgetting how to function, as he backs away. “Excuse me,” Vision finds his words have yet to return to him, still mesmerized by the woman in front of him, meaning he has to point at the oven and try to explain what he needs to do, “bread.”

Wanda’s mouth puckers in amusement as she steps back, yet even with the distance he can still feel the lingering trace of her fingers on his body, breath on his lips, and the silkiness of her hair against his fingertips. “Go for it.” His attention finally shifts to the bread, reaching into the oven to remove the pillowy loaf. When he resurfaces he does not immediately see Wanda and confusion settles uncomfortably around his shoulders until he hears a tapping to his left, eyes following the noise to find her at the tablet affixed to the wall, scrolling through the music on his cooking playlist.

“Anything you’re in the mood for?”

“Whatever you prefer.” The music that falls from the speakers situated around the room is not much different from what had been on previously, though Wanda tends to prefer the songs laced with allure, a sultry trill in the brass that twists and turns into a burst of cymbals. Vision grins at the selection, an approving tone as he identifies the artist, “Frank Sinatra.” His hands move quickly, yet still in time with the beat of the music, as he checks the chicken, stirs the sauce, places the brussel sprouts into the oven, and brushes the bread with oil and a finish of rock salt. “Wanda could you,” the intent is to ask her to hand him the pepper, which somehow found its way to the opposite counter, but when he turns to face her he stops, lips parting as he takes in the smirk on her face and the swing of her hips as she approaches him.

“Could I…”

His eyes never leave her, hands frozen and mind reeling as she steps up to him, her body still moving with the music as she places her hands on his upper arms. Lazily she walks her fingers up along his shoulder, a swagger to the movement, a surety gleaming in her eyes at the way she affects him that creates centralized points of heat in his skin wherever she touches. Each featherlight touch conjures more heat which makes the shiver that goes down his spine as she brushes her fingers along the exposed skin of his neck all the more distracting. Vision releases a shaky breath, knowing he is committing a fatal error by locking his eyes with hers, “Pass the pepper?”

“Is that,” the coquettish narrowing of her eyes reveals a prescience sureness simmering beneath the surface, an unspoken future victory left blatantly out in the open, one that catches his breath and refuses to let go, “really what you want right now, my,” the next word is whispered into his skin as she presses her lips to the corner of his mouth, “beloved?”

Despite the public’s ability to only refer to him as The Vision, Wanda uses different names depending on her mood or purpose. Vision in formal settings, on missions, during press conferences, or when they are fighting or he is brooding and she needs to underscore her seriousness. Far more common is the multipurpose Vizh, a nickname she began using because, as she informed him, while wrapped in a fuzzy blanket and sipping tea, tears still fresh on her face from a nightmare, she thought her best friend could use a nickname. So, if he was okay with it, she liked Vizh, and it instantly felt right, familiar, intimate. But, there are times where Vizh is not quite enough and that is when she utilizes the more evocative, more captivating My Beloved. It is a fine-tuned, powerful, ancient spell that always infiltrates his carefully constructed defenses. “No, but dinner is al-”

Swallowing is superfluous, yet he finds himself pushing synthetic saliva down his throat as he registers the way her lips curl up into a sly come-hither arc, a mystifying challenge to his resolve, and it ensnare him, strips his mind bare of logic and rationale. A perfect microcosm of their relationship, the heady rush of her disregard for normative, orderly functioning clashing with and challenging his logic. It is always a toss up who wins in the end, a thrill in the unknown of this fact that ignites a torrid yearning in his chest. Right now, particularly as he notes the crackle of oil from the still hot pan on the stove, is not the best time for distractions, but his heart seems to disagree, ramming frantically in his chest as her fingers continue to crawl along his body, down his neck, along his shoulder, tracing the curve of his tricep before dipping into the pocket of his elbow, and then her hand finds his, their fingers lacing.

Vision always assumed the ability of her touch to render his logic useless would only occur at the tentative, exhilarating dance that was entering into their relationship, but, antithetical to all his rationale, he believes it may be more impactful now than it was at the onset. Yet there is no denying the intense warmth engulfing his body, one that he cannot easily attribute to the stove or hot pans, its origins based exclusively in the fervent, unquestionable love coursing through his body for Wanda. A love that goes against reason, logic, public opinion, a taboo that should not exist and yet, here they stand. It’s when his mind betrays logic, siding with the beating of his heart, that he concludes no one will care if he burns the chicken again. So he lifts their joined hands to the side, a small flourish of his free hand through the air as he bends slightly at the waist, eyes locked with hers as he whispers a hopeful, “Dance with me?”

The grin spreads from her lips, scrunching her nose as she steps into his embrace, perfectly fitting against his body. “I was worried you weren’t going to ask me.”

“My apologies for causing you concern.” He wraps his free arm around her waist, fully giving in to her persuasion and begins a slow, easy box-step on the floor, grinning at the glee on her face, the press of her chest to his, and the tingle on his thighs where the hem of her dress brushes against him. Vision smiles as he stares into her eyes, heart thudding happily when she lays her cheek on his chest, allowing him to guide her around the kitchen. As they move he begins to realize that it all makes sense, why Wanda can so easily distract him, why whenever he is with her it is nearly impossible to remain logical, preferring to follow the irrationally based needs of his heart. “I have decided that they are correct.”

Wanda’s feet do not miss a beat, continuing their intimate waltz despite the perplexion on her face as she pulls back to stare at him, “Who’s correct?”

A quick phase of his hand frees it from her grasp, palm coming to lay on her cheek, thumb tracing along her jawline, “The people who call you Scarlet Witch. Though their reasoning for the moniker is quite flawed.”

Her confusion fades, replaced by intrigue and a tilt of her head as she studies him. “Oh?”

“Yes,” the music carries them around the kitchen island and into the open space between the kitchen and the common room, the buzz of the television and the voices of their teammates barely registering over the crooning vocals mingling with the seductive trumpets, “they call you that out of fear and concern, but they are wrong.” Vision bends down so he can rest his forehead against hers, close enough to identify every fleck of green and dot of brown in her irises that are not visible from further away. “You are the nicest witch I have ever met.”

The skin around her eyes crinkles as she grins up at him, “Please don’t tell them that.”

“Never.” Vision tightens his grip around her waist as he leans forward, pushing her body off its central axis, a surprised gasp escaping her lips as he dips her. “The name is only correct in one manner: you,” he brings his lips millimeters from hers, hoping his breath causes the same reaction in her as hers does to him, “have bewitched me with your love.”

A sighed “Vizh,” passes from her mouth to his, an incantation as strong now as it was the first time she charmed him with it, and despite the pungent aroma of burned chicken and scalding cream sauce in the air, he closes the distance between their lips for a slow, passionate kiss. As he sinks into her embrace he knows, with stunning clarity and certainty, that he will never long for any other person, content to forever remain spellbound by the Scarlet Witch.

**Author's Note:**

> A special thanks to my beta, atendrilofscarlet, who is just awesome beyond words.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments always welcome. 
> 
> Happy Scarlet Vision Exchange 2017!


End file.
